


Blackthorn Winter

by Anarfea



Series: Shifting Seasons [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brain Damage, Coma, Infidelity, Injury Recovery, Multi, Speech Disorders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23554699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: After dancing around each other over Christmas and New Year’s, Greg has decided to divorce Stephanie and give a relationship with Mycroft a try. But a devastating assault on Greg changes everything. Stephanie sticks by his side, and Mycroft is unsure where he fits in Greg’s changed life. Can Greg find his way back to Mycroft as he recovers? Or will he reach for the familiarity of his failing marriage?
Relationships: Greg Lestrade/Greg Lestrade's Wife, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Shifting Seasons [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608547
Comments: 124
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A Blackthorn Winter is winter coming back when you think it's spring, when the blackthorns are in bloom.
> 
> Originally, I was so eager to post this I forgot to check the box that says it's part of a series. So yes, since it was asked, this is Part 4 of Shifting Seasons. So, if you read the last chapter before I made that change, I'm letting you know now so you can read the other fics in that series if you're so inclined. I think they give this fic some context.

**Mr Holmes requests you join him for afternoon tea at the Diogenes club on Saturday, January 8th at 3:00 PM.**

Warmth suffuses Greg’s chest as he reads his phone. So Mycroft hasn’t forgotten about him, after all. He takes a sip of the shitty yard coffee and sets it down on a coaster, now an island in the sea of paperwork on his desk. This is good. He texts back:

**Thanks. Tell him I’ll be there.**

The coffee is starting to go cold. Greg gulps the rest of it down. Then he reluctantly starts filling out the form at the top of the pile. It’s going to be a long two days.

* * *

Greg has been to the Diogenes before, but never for afternoon tea. It’s exactly what he expected. A three tier tea tower piled with savory finger sandwiches on the bottom tier, scones with clotted cream and jam in the middle, and macarons at the top. Tea in a delicate china pot trimmed in gold, with matching cups and saucers. All of it brought up to Mycroft’s private dining room, adjacent to his office. Like the office, the decor here is severe and ornate, all heavy scrollwork gilded in gold. Greg’s pretty sure most of the furniture is Victorian.

Mycroft pours the tea into both cups and hands one to Greg. “Do you take cream and sugar?” he asks.

“Drink it black, like my coffee.”

Greg takes the cup and sips it. It’s good, better than the PG Tips Steph and he drink. Drank. He doesn’t know what tense to use for Steph. She’s alive, obviously, but there is no “them” anymore. He looks down at the cup. It’s awkward in his paw of a hand.

He doesn’t want to start the conversation off on the wrong foot, but he’s also painfully aware of how they parted. Might as well get it out of the way.

“I’m sorry about drunk texting you.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for.”

“Still. I kinda….” Overshared? Made inappropriate comments? “Said some things I shouldn’t have.”

Mycroft shrugs. Not like he’s forgiving an infraction, but like he’s not really listening. Greg has the impression his intention is elsewhere.

“I didn’t mean to tell you about Steph and me like that. But I did, so, I’ll say it again sober. It’s over. I’ve filed for divorce. I’m staying at a hotel. A shit hotel in Lambeth, because it’s all I can afford right now, but it’s still better than staying with Steph.”

Mycroft nods noncommittally and takes a sip of tea.

Greg isn’t sure what he expected. Some kind of response. “Though to be honest, she took it pretty well, I guess. We didn’t row. I just--told her it was over, and she agreed. Then I filled out the paperwork and mailed it. I assume she got it. We actually haven’t talked since Christmas.”

“So she hasn’t signed yet.”

“No. Or if she has, she hasn’t sent the papers back. I’m sure she will, though.”

Mycroft looks unconvinced. “You’re sure she won’t contest the divorce?”

“She said she wouldn’t. I trust her.”

Mycroft arches one eyebrow.

“Well, with that, anyway.”

He nods.

“It’s just so weird, thinking that soon it’ll all be over, and I’ll be….”

“Free?” There’s an edge to Mycroft’s tone, and Greg isn’t sure what to make of it. The expression on his face is almost a smirk.

“Yeah.” he says, uncertain.

“And I suppose you’ll want to… continue what we started.” Mycroft brings his teacup to his lips, blows. Little ripples form on the surface. He’s not looking at Greg. Greg gets that impression again that Mycroft is detached. Like he could be talking about the weather instead of pursuing a relationship.

Greg sips his own tea to cover his discomfort. He feels totally out of his element, in this posh place. He doesn’t belong in places like this. Why couldn’t Mycroft have just met him in a coffee shop like a normal person?

“I was hoping to. Yeah. If you still….”

Mycroft’s expression is unreadable.

Greg eats one of the little finger sandwiches. Smoked salmon and cucumber with creme fraiche. It’s overly fussy. Too rich. He watches Mycroft watching him with those grey eyes.

“Yes.”

Greg is caught off guard. “It’s just you don’t seem very… enthusiastic.”

“You require enthusiasm?” His voice is sharp.

“I… yeah. I mean, if you’re not feeling this. Then I’m not, either.”

“What I’m feeling, Gregory, is an intense desire to retire to my rooms, and for you to fuck me until I can’t see straight.”

Greg’s eyes widen. “Wow. Okay. Um. I wasn’t really expecting that.”

“Were you not?” 

““I… no.” Greg is reeling. Is that what Mycroft thinks, that he came here to get a leg over? In the middle of the day? On their first date? “I mean, I find you attractive. But I was rather hoping we’d take things slow. Wait. Until after the divorce goes through.”

Mycroft barks a laugh. Greg isn’t sure if Mycroft is laughing at him, or the situation, or just… it sounds bitter.

“I see. You’re a consummate gentleman.”

“I just… want to do things right.”

“Why drag it out?” asks Mycroft. “If it’s a foregone conclusion.”

“I thought the waiting might be nice? That we’d have something to look forward to while we’re getting to know each other?”

Mycroft blinks. The way Sherlock sometimes does when he’s surprised or stuck on something.

“But I guess we’re not on the same page. About anything, really.”

Mycroft’s brow furrows.

“Look. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I thought we had a connection. Looks like you thought it was just sexual chemistry and that’s fine, I felt that too, but that’s not what I want. I told you. I can’t do sex without emotion. I know you said that’s what you do, what works for you. But I can’t.”

“And you think that’s what I was proposing?”

“That we just go back to your rooms and fuck? Yeah.”

Mycroft presses his lips together. “I’m sorry if my proposition offended you.”

“I’m not _offended_. Just… that’s not what I want.”

“And what do you want?”

“I don’t know. To see where things could go. To take things slow, not jump into bed right away.”

“Let me tell you where things will go, Gregory. If we take things ‘slow.’ I will learn nothing about you that I don’t already know. You will learn things about me that you dislike. We’ll fall into bed together. I’m sure the sex will be very good, but you’ve already said that’s not enough for you. You want emotional connection. I’m not an emotional man. You’ll tire of me, and you’ll end it. And you’ll realize that I was nothing but a rebound. A way to get your ex-wife and her betrayal out of your system.”

“Wow.” Greg thinks he’s getting it now. Where Mycroft’s coming from. Why he’s being so chilly. “You know, that’s actually not a ‘foregone conclusion’? Look, I get you’re being concerned about being a rebound. I know I’m just coming out of a failed relationship. But I’m also not young anymore. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time. I wouldn’t be pursuing you if I didn’t really think we had a chance.”

“At what?”

“A real relationship.”

“I thought I made myself clear. I don’t do relationships.”

“Right. Right, you did.”

“I do sex without attachment..”

“Okay. I get it. We don’t want the same things.”

Mycroft looks down at the tablecloth. “But I want you.”

“Yeah. You made that pretty clear. And I want you too, but Mycroft, I don’t want casual. I want... more.”

Mycroft raises his eyes. “You’re certain?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I… I suppose I could. Try.”

“Really?”

“I warn you. This is not my area. It’s very likely you will be disappointed.”

“Maybe. Maybe you’ll be disappointed in me. But I’m glad you’re willing to try, because I felt something. Something special. On Christmas Eve. And I don’t think it was just a sexual connection. I felt… like you saw me.”

“Most people dislike it when I scrutinize them.”

“I didn’t feel scrutinized. I just felt like you… got me. And that really clarified things for me. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have left Steph. Things were falling apart already. But you made me realize that someone might actually understand me and that gave me something to look forward to. And I haven’t felt that in a long time.”

“I too felt a… connection. That night.”

“Yeah? And wasn’t it good? Couldn’t we be good?”

Mycroft licks his lips.

“Just let’s give it a try. Please. Because I am interested in you for the long haul. If that’s what you want.”

Mycroft nods stiffly.

“Good.” Greg wants to reach out and cup his jaw, caress his face, kiss him. Reassure him. He settles for extending his hand across the white linen tablecloth. Mycroft stares at it, then extends his own hand and rests it on top of Greg’s. He’s wearing a ring. Greg has always wondered about that ring. “It belonged to my uncle Rudyard. There’s no romantic significance.”

Greg smiles. “I don’t understand. Sometimes it’s like you can read my mind. Other times it’s clear you have no idea what I’m thinking.”

Mycroft shrugs.

“Look. Can we start over? Forget all this nonsense about how I just want to love you and leave you and have a normal conversation?”

“Define ‘normal.’”

“I don’t know. I complain about work, you complain about Sherlock. We commiserate, sip tea, eat some of those tasty looking macarons?”

“That sounds… tolerable.”

“Okay. Let’s do that.”

Mycroft nods stiffly and takes a sip of tea.

And they do that. Mycroft still feels a bit stiff, rehearsed, but he chats, and Greg suspects he’s not used to chatting and puts the stiffness down to that. They gripe about work, Sherlock, the weather. Greg skips the scones and bites into a macaron. It’s orange flavored, tart and sweet. Much better than the finger sandwich.

“When can I see you next?” Greg asks.

“Can you do lunch?”

“Yeah. Not all the time, but I should be able to tear away from the office for a long lunch as long as I’m not in the middle of a case or something.”

Mycroft nods. “I think I am able to do Wednesday. My assistant will confirm.”

“Okay. I’ll count on it.”

He removes his napkin from his lap and stands up. Mycroft does the same, and offers his hand. There’s that same zing Greg remembered, stronger now that they are touching skin to skin, no leather between them.

An urge rises to kiss Mycroft goodbye. A quick, tender peck on the mouth. Mycroft seems to sense this, eyes him warily. But the table is between them, and in any case they’ve agreed to wait.

“Wednesday,” says Greg.

“I’ll send for a car.” Mycroft reaches for his pocket.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Greg. “I’ll take the tube.”

For a moment he thinks Mycroft might insist, but he doesn’t. Greg makes his way out from Mycroft’s rooms and into the hallways of the Diogenes, where he’s escorted by a uniformed attendant who gives him a look that says he knows Greg doesn’t belong here. No matter. Mycroft invited him. Mycroft wants him. He’s going to see Mycroft on Wednesday. Greg checks his watch as he walks down the steps of the Diogenes. 5:33 and it’s already dark. But that’s January. He’s not exactly eager to get back to his hotel, but he’s worn out his welcome here.

He takes the tube to Oval, and walks down Kennington Park Road towards his hotel with his hands in his pockets. He’s still not sure what to make of the afternoon. On the whole, he considers it a success. Mycroft has never been in a relationship. Of course he’s skittish. And his nerves are what made him seem so distant and cold. Greg is confident he can pry Mycroft out of that icy shell given time.

He stops in front of his hotel. It’s a drab, depressing looking building. He doesn’t want to go in. On impulse, he decides to take a walk around the block. Not that this neighborhood is much for scenery, but getting a bit of air here will be better than watching crap telly on his sagging bed.

He rounds the corner and sees a teenage boy in a ragged parka sitting cross legged on the pavement. “Oy, mate,” he asks. “You got any spare change?”

Greg doesn’t normally give to panhandlers, but the universe has been kind to him today, so he reaches for his wallet and pulls out a few coins, tosses them into the cardboard box setting at the kid’s feet.

The second man comes out of nowhere. He grabs Greg’s wallet and makes a run for it, disappearing down an alley.

Greg gives chase. “Stop, police!” he shouts, pulling his badge free from his pocket and brandishing it while running.

The alley dead ends. The pickpocket starts to climb the wall. Greg grabs him by the legs and pulls him down. “Stop! You’re under arrest on suspicion of theft.”

“Copper, are you?” the man twists in Greg’s grip. “Let me go, you bloody swine.”

They grapple. Greg tries to press the man against the wall. But fuck, he’s not as young as he used to be and this bloke is strong. He twists Greg’s arm, making him drop his badge, and then gets him into a lock. Fuck.

Greg struggles. The man forces him to his knees, which explode into starbursts of pain on contact with the asphalt. He puts an arm around Greg’s neck and gets him into a headlock, presses him to the ground. Greg claws at the man’s arm, trying to turn his neck towards the crook of his elbow. He needs air. His vision is green around the edges.

The man tightens his grip. Greg chokes. His blood pounds in his temples. He twists again, not finding any space to breathe. Then everything goes dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. I changed up the tags a bit. Sorry about that. I finished my outline of this fic and realized it needed to be split into two parts, Blackthorn Winter and a sequel, Vernal Equinox. So some of the things, like the promised happy ending and the sexy times, got bumped to the next fic, but will happen. Hang in here with me, kiddos.

Mycroft prefers his office at the SIS building, but he does have an office at the Diogenes, and after Greg bids him farewell and shuts the door behind him it’s easier to go next door than to summon a car. He doesn’t know how to feel about how things went. Mycroft is sure that Greg was sincere when he attempted to reassure him that he’s not a rebound fling. Greg is an honest and an honorable man. But Greg is also in a period of high emotion, and that makes his future actions unpredictable. Mycroft sighs and goes back to his file on Project HOUND.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

He picks it up. Sherlock. What trouble has his little brother gotten into now?

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?”

“I need your help.”

“I’m sure you do. I have a number of cases--”

“Now’s not the time, Mycroft. It’s Lestrade!” There’s a frantic energy in his brother’s voice which gives him pause. “He’s in hospital. St Thomas’s.”

Mycroft feels the blood drain from his face. “What?”

“One of my Homeless Network found him. Said Lestrade was assaulted by a pickpocket and left unconscious in an alleyway. My agent called me and 999. The Met’s on the scene. Probably already contaminated it. I couldn’t get there in time.”

“What alleyway?”

Sherlock gives him the GPS coordinates.

Mycroft cradles his phone against his jaw and writes an email to Anthea:

**Gather a team and scour the CCTV footage around these coordinates for the past hour. Detective Inspector Lestrade was assaulted here. We need to find his assailant immediately. And send a car to my club.**

He grabs his jacket and coat from the wardrobe and puts them on as he walks briskly down the halls, ignoring the people who stare at him talking on the phone.

“I need you to find him, Mycroft. Whomever attacked Lestrade. My agent didn’t recognize him.”

“I promise you, Sherlock, my best people are on it.”

“Not your people, Mycroft, you!”

Mycroft ignores Sherlock. He needs to get to Greg. “What’s the Inspector’s prognosis?”

“The EMTs took him to the closest A&E, which is St Thomas’s. I don’t know what happened after that.”

Mycroft wants to curse Sherlock for not having more information, but he doesn’t. It won’t help, and if he stops to think for a moment, Sherlock has actually done well in his handling of the crisis so far. He makes it to the steps of the Diogenes and bounds down. A car is waiting at the kerb. Well done Anthea.

“Sherlock, I promise you I will find Lestrade’s assailant. I’ll update you as soon as I have more information.” He adds, “and reward your agent. Anything he wants.”

“Sure. And you had better, Mycroft.” Sherlock hangs up.

The driver opens the car door for Mycroft. “Where to, sir?”

“St Thomas’s hospital.”

By the time Mycroft’s car has arrived at St Thomas’s, he’s transferred Greg’s case to MI5 and has sent Anthea to the crime scene with a forensic team including Sherlock to salvage anything they can. At least he knows Sherlock will give him his full cooperation without question. Mycroft always prefers when his brother and he are working together rather than against each other. Then there’s the pesky question of his own budding relationship with Lestrade and Sherlock’s eventual discovery of it. This worry has been at the back of his mind since Christmas. He’s sure Sherlock will be displeased, and will throw a tantrum of some kind. Perhaps it’s for the best that the truth comes out now, when they’re both still working together to find the piece of excrement that did this to Greg. Greg. Beaten and left for dead in an alley. Mycroft has to see him, to know how he is, if he will live, if he’ll emerge with intact faculties. Mycroft knows there are risks with any loss of consciousness. Risks of consequences he doesn’t want to think about. But he must face the facts. There is a distinct possibility that Greg might die, or never be the same again.

The driver drops Mycroft at the main entrance. He has no contacts here, but has a friend of a friend who does, and has called in some favors. Greg is Critical Care, in stable condition. Mycroft asked to have Greg transferred to a private room, but that won’t be possible as long as he’s in the ICU. And Stephanie is there. The Met contacted her, as Greg’s next of kin. Mycroft is annoyed by this fact, but there’s nothing he can do. He strides down the corridor and makes his way to Greg’s room.

Curtains divide the room, separating off each bed. Mycroft makes his way past several until he recognizes Greg, chest rising and falling rhythmically as the ventilator breathes for him. His heart rate is regular, blipping away on the monitor. His eyes are closed.

Stephanie sits in a chair at his bedside. Her face is wan. The skin around her eyes is tight and there are shadows beneath them. Her brunette hair is pulled back into a messy bun. 

She glances up when Mycroft pulls the curtain back. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“I’m investigating Inspector Lestrade’s case.”

She frowns. “You aren’t a policeman.”

“No.”

“Well, you can’t talk to him. Obviously. So I’m not sure why you’re here.”

“I wanted to ensure he’s getting the best possible medical care.”

Her brow furrows. She can’t complain about that, but it’s not the response she expected.

“Excuse me?” Calls a gentle voice from behind Mycroft.

“Now who is it?” Stephanie’s voice is tight.

“Doctor Sachar,” says a voice. “I’m responsible for Greg’s care. Can I come in?”

“Yes, of course.”

The doctor enters and stands at the foot of Greg’s bed. He’s tall, with salt and pepper hair and deep brown skin. He’s wearing red scrubs and a stethoscope around his neck.

“What can you tell us about his condition?” asks Mycroft.

Doctor Sachar looks at Stephanie, then back to Mycroft.

“At the moment, Greg is in a coma, we suspect from a lack of oxygen to his brain caused by a choke hold, evidenced by the trauma to his neck. The ventilator is breathing for him.”

“Is he going to live?” Stephanie is blunt.

“In all probability, yes. He is stable.”

“Will he be a vegetable?”

It’s a question Mycroft doesn’t voice aloud, as though speaking about the worst of all possibilities might bring it about. Superstitious nonsense. Stephanie faces it head on.

“His pupils respond to light, and he has motor reflex responses to pain,” says Doctor Sachar. “These are good signs.”

“Pain?” asks Mycroft, concern welling inside him.

“We squeeze the fingernail,” says doctor Sachar. “Nothing drastic.”

“Can he hear us?” Stephanie asks.

“Many patients who have awakened from comas report remembering sounds at various times. Talk to him. It can’t hurt.”

She nods.

“Do you have other questions for me?” asks doctor Sachar. Mycroft has questions, but Stephanie barges ahead.

“How long until he wakes up?” asks Stephanie.

“We cannot say for certain. But people with responses similar to his usually wake anywhere between a few days to several weeks. Is there anything else?”

“When are visiting hours?”

“10AM until 8PM. And we don’t allow visitors at mealtimes.”

“How will he eat?”

He gestures to Greg’s nose. “There’s a nasogastric tube through which we will administer food. And he’ll get IV electrolytes and fluids.” 

Earlier this afternoon, Greg was eating macarons with Mycroft. It’s so strange, to think that was his last meal in what might be weeks.

“What about his other bodily needs?”

“Catheter and something we call a ‘fecal management system.’ We will make sure he stays clean.” Mycroft shudders to think of Greg so helpless. But he’s grateful the doctors will care for him.

“Baths?”

“Yes, we’ll bathe him.”

“What if he wakes when I’m not here?”

“We’ll call you if we notice any change to his condition. Anything else?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m so tired at the moment I can hardly think straight. I’m sure I’ll have more questions later.”

“You should go home and rest,” says Mycroft. “You must be exhausted.”

Stephanie looks bewildered and says nothing.

Doctor Sachar glances between them again. “Very well. Page me if you need me.” He turns and goes back the way he came.

Stephanie looks up at him sharply, eyes narrowed. “Sorry, but who exactly are you, again?”

“I’m Mycroft Holmes.”

“Any relation to Sherlock Holmes?”

“He’s my younger brother.”

Her lip twitches.

“I apologize for any offense he’s given you.” He debates how much of his power he should show. Should he admit he knows about her adultery? About the impending divorce?

“It hardly matters now,” she glances back towards Greg.

And she’s right. He hates to admit it, but she’s right. Greg might die, and that matters more than any enmity he might feel towards her.

“I’m not sure what exactly you think you’re doing here. But if you think you’re going to meddle in my husband’s care, you’d better have another think coming.”

Mycroft starts at the word: husband. So she’s going to pretend the divorce isn’t happening. Perhaps now it won’t happen. Anything could happen when Greg wakes up. If Greg wakes up.

“Like I said, I’m merely ensuring that Inspector Lestrade receives the best of medical care.”

“Yes, you said that. And you’re ‘investigating’ his case. Which makes no sense. The Met have the investigation handled. It’s a simple mugging. It’s just a matter of time before the arsehole shows up on CCTV.”

“I’m here in case it’s an act of terrorism disguised as a mugging.”

“What?” Her brows furrow. “That’s nonsense. You’re a MI5 or MI6 goon, and you’re making up some supposed terrorist connection so you can drag this case under your purview.”

She’s smarter than he anticipated, this woman. Still, there’s nothing she can do to stop him. “Be that as it may, I am handling this investigation. And I assure you, a terrorist connection _will_ be found, and Inspector Lestrade’s assailant will be extradited to the blackest of black sites.”

She shakes her head. “And that will accomplish what, exactly?”

“Forgive me, I was under the impression you still cared for your… husband.”

“Oh.” Realization crosses her tired face. “You must be Greg’s… midlife crisis.”

Mycroft winces.

“Of all the bloody ways to meet.” She barks a laugh.

Mycroft stares at her, silent.

“Look. You’ve already done more than anyone would expect of a… whatever it is that you are. I know you might think you owe Greg something, but you don’t. So why don’t you go home, and get some rest, and leave Greg’s case with the Met where it belongs.”

Mycroft is taken aback. “Greg is an old friend.” he says slowly. “I owe him a great deal, actually, on account of everything he’s done for my brother.”

“Okay,” begins Stephanie. “But I fail to see what sending some punk to Saudi Arabia or wherever on trumped up terrorism charges is going to accomplish.”

Mycroft smiles tightly. “Vengeance.”

“You may say Greg’s an old friend, but you clearly don’t know him at all. He’s not the vengeful type. If he were awake, he’d tell you off for what you’re doing.”

She was probably right. But Greg wasn’t awake. Might never wake again. And Mycroft wants someone to pay.

“Anyway,” she said, “I’m staying at his side until visiting hours are over. Alone.”

Mycroft is not accustomed to being dismissed. It chafes. But he nods to Stephanie and leaves, all the same.

He pulls his watch from his waistcoat and checks the time. 7:45. Stephanie doesn’t have much time left with Greg, anyway. Mycroft had hoped for a moment alone with him, a chance to say… something reassuring. Greg can possibly hear him, Doctor Sachar said. But he’s not going to speak to Greg with Stephanie there. He hopes she won’t insist on staying at Greg’s bedside every visiting hour. Though arranging a visit to Greg after hours should be easy enough. It will require more favors, more strings, is all.

He’s tired. And he’s been left off balance by Stephanie. She’s a formidable woman, Greg’s soon to be ex wife. If indeed Greg still wants to leave her when he wakes. This kind of near death experience forces people to reassess what really matters. Thirty-two years Greg said he’s been with Stephanie. What does Mycroft have? An intense sexual connection on Christmas Eve, a series of drunken text messages, and an awkward tea? And amnesia is common among coma patients. There’s a possibility Greg won’t even remember their feeble history. That thought terrifies him more than it should. Greg might die. Greg might be a vegetable. And yet the thing that Mycroft fears the most is that Greg will wake and recover and yet will never be his. 


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as eight o’clock rolls around the nurse tells her it’s time to go, Steph stops in the closest ladies’ room, lets herself into the first stall, and retches. She hasn’t eaten much today and it’s mostly dry heaving. Her eyes water and bitter bile coats the back of her throat. Greg could die. And she swore ‘until death do us part.’ Greg had wanted to break that contract, had asked her for a divorce New Year’s Eve. But Steph hasn’t signed the papers yet, and more than that, she hasn’t stopped thinking of herself as Greg’s wife, as his partner, and so she’s here. Even though Greg doesn’t want her. He doesn’t want her, but he needs her, and so she’s here.

She doesn’t know what to make of Mycroft Holmes. She doesn’t know much about him except that he’s Sherlock Holmes’s older brother, and like his brother he can’t seem to mind his own business. And he works for MI5 or MI6 and has pulled Greg’s case under his jurisdiction just to vex her, it seems. That’s probably not fair. Probably he’s doing it because he’s convinced his people have better odds of finding Greg’s assailant, and maybe he’s right. Steph may not agree with his approach of pretending this guy is a terrorist and sending him off to some black site, but she wants him caught, wants justice done for Greg. Mycroft Holmes had better deliver. 

She’s also certain Mycroft Holmes is the man that Greg wanted to have sex with Christmas Eve. The man he pulled out his good court suit and shoes for on New Year’s. Under other circumstances, Steph would be jealous, would be furious, at this man who aspires to be Greg’s lover. But now, it seems so trivial in comparison to the possibility that Greg might never wake up, or might wake up as a completely different person who doesn’t know her and who she doesn’t know.

She leaves the bathroom stall and goes to the sink, turns it on, cups her hand and drinks from it, trying to chase the taste of bile from her mouth. She splashes her face with water. She looks into the mirror. She’s green, like a cartoon. She opens her purse and takes out a compaq, brushes the pressed powder over her nose, cheeks and forehead.

Greg could die. It hits her again, a sucker punch. She bows over and nearly retches again, grasping the sink to keep from falling. She pulls herself up and wipes her mouth. 

_Fuck._

* * *

Greg has been moved out of the Critical Care unit into a room in the private wing. Here, he has his own room, with a window. The table beneath it is filled with bouquets of fresh cut flowers.

One of the bouquets is from the Refugee Council. She’s taken a leave of absence from her job. They’re sympathetic. Her leave is indefinite, and she’s not sure she’ll go back. She’s never needed the money, only to feel useful, but administrative support staff can be replaced. And now, Greg is more important.

It is nice to be able to have real alone time with him, which was impossible when he was in Critical Care, in a shared room filled with beeping monitors. It’s quiet here. For the last week, she’s come to see him every day. She sits and crochets and watches telly and watches him. She can’t really pretend she’s watching him sleep. The ventilator prevents that. It lurks beside the bed like a big hunkering monster. She shouldn’t think so uncharitably of it, she supposes. It is breathing for Greg, keeping him alive. But it’s creepy, seeing that tube down his throat. Her own aches sympathetically. Today, it’s even harder to pretend Greg is sleeping, because his eyes are open. Sometimes they move without really looking at anything. It frightens her.

There’s a knock at the door.

Steph glances up from her afghan. “Come in.”

Doctor Sachar comes in, with his familiar red scrubs and easy smile. “And how are we doing today?” he asks.

“His eyes are open. Sometimes I think he’s watching me.”

He looks at Greg. Steph does, too. Greg’s eyes are pointed at the door, almost like he’s looking at Doctor Sachar.

“Let’s see.” Doctor Sachar walks across the room. Greg’s eyes follow. “It’s a good sign.”

He takes a small flashlight out of his pocket and shines it into Greg’s eyes. Steph stands up, drapes the afghan over the back of her chair, and looks over his shoulder. Greg’s pupils shrink in response to the light. But it’s like he’s looking through her. Past her. She shivers, and it isn’t cold in here.

“Have you been talking to him?” 

She hasn’t. She feels guilty about that; she knows she’s supposed to, but she has no clue if Greg can even hear her, and, if he can, if he’d want to. She and Greg haven’t spoken since New Years Eve. It’s awful to think that might be the last conversation she’ll ever have with him, but it’s even more awful to think the last conversation they might have is some one-sided thing where Steph babbles at him and Greg doesn’t speak back.

“I don’t know what to say,” she says at last. She doesn’t want to tell Doctor Sachar about their history, to talk about Brandon, Darren, the petition for dirvorce that’s sitting on her kitchen table awaiting her signature.

“It doesn’t really matter,” says Doctor Sachar. “Just the sound of a loved one’s voice might soothe him.”

She nods.

“Try talking to him. Just tell him about your day. Make small talk.”

“Okay.”

“Page me if there’s any change,” says Doctor Sachar.

“Sure.”

He leaves, in his usual quiet way, his black clogs making almost no noise on the lino.

Steph stares at Greg.

His eyes move idly around the room.

“Hi,” Steph says at last. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can, I’m here. I’m here for you.”

Greg shows no perceptible reaction.

“I wish you could see all the flowers. Your eyes are open--maybe you can. The big wreath with the tulips is from your colleagues at Scotland Yard.” She points at a skinny vase with three birds of paradise in a vertical stack. “Sally sent that. The yellow lilies are from the Chief Super.” Sherlock sent a small bouquet of strawberries and pineapple rings and melon balls shaped like daisies. She’s been munching on it while she sits with Greg.

She’d wondered if Mycroft Holmes would send any flowers. He hasn’t. She finds herself disappointed, and isn’t quite sure why. She hasn’t seen him the entire week. She hoped he would stop by with some kind of update on Greg’s case. She wants him to catch the guy, and fast. Every day Greg doesn’t wake, the idea of throwing the asshole that did this to him into some black hole sounds more appealing.

“You’re on leave,” she tells Greg. “You’d hate that. I’m on leave, too. For as long as it takes, I guess.”

Doctor Sachar said to make small talk, but now that she’s started talking, it’s impossible not to say what’s really been on her mind.

“I’m really sorry about Darren. I’ve broken things off with him. It’s too little, too late, I know. You’re probably still angry. You probably still want to leave me. And I understand. I do. I told myself that if you wanted us to be over, we’d be over. But I can’t leave you. Not like this. I hope you understand that.”

Tears prickle her eyes. She blinks them back. She looks down at her hands, crocheting. Her left index finger is developing a callus. The afghan is a freeform spiral, growing outward with each stitch. She’s trying to recreate the ammonite she found on the beach in Dorset. She hadn’t been quite certain at the time why she’d picked it up, but it seemed significant somehow. And since she’s been carrying it around in her pocket, thinking about it, there’s something about that ancient creature adding chambers to its shell as it grew, continually making a new home for itself in the world--that felt meaningful. And now it feels like a reminder that maybe she can make a new home for herself, without Greg.

She crochets and watches him.

“I don’t think anything could have saved us.” She stares down at her hands, the yarn running through her fingers as the hook dances. “I used to think--if we’d had children.... But I don’t think they would have kept you home. And I didn’t want to raise children alone.” Her eyes well up again. “I feel so alone, Greg. I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t wake up. Or if you wake up and you don’t remember me, or you never walk again, or….” and now she can’t stop the tears from falling.

She looks up and sees Greg is crying, too. Tears are leaking from the corner of his eyes. Steph’s heart races. Did Greg hear her? Did she upset him? Is he going to wake only to be angry with her? She presses the call button.

A nurse comes in moments later. “Is everything alright?” she asks.

“He’s crying,” says Steph.

She nods. “I’ll page Doctor Sachar.”

“Can you hear me?” asks Steph. “Are you waking up?” She reaches for Greg’s hand, squeezes it. There’s no response. His teary eyes stare past her.

There’s a quick knock at the door. Doctor Sachar comes in without waiting for her to say anything. “You called?”

Steph points. “He’s crying. I started crying, and then he did, too.”

Doctor Sachar walks over to the bed and examines Greg. “It’s a good sign.”

“Is he waking up?”

“It means that he’s returned to a minimally conscious state.”

“Did I upset him?”

“We can’t really say what goes on in the mind of coma patients. Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s just a reflex. But it is a good sign. We may be able to take him off the ventilator if he continues to improve.”

Steph chews her lip. She didn’t want to upset Greg. But the thought that he can hear her, that he’d heard her, is heartening. 

“Keep talking to him,” says Doctor Sachar. “It’s helping.” Then he leaves again.

Steph takes a tissue out of her pocket. She dabs the corners of Greg’s eyes, then dries her own. “Look at us,” she says. “We’re such a mess.”

She places her hand over Greg’s heart. The beat is strong, steady. It’s so hard to believe that he can have a heartbeat like this and yet not be able to breathe on his own. She thinks again about what Doctor Sachar said, about taking him off the ventilator if he continues to improve. Those first few, terrible days, she’d thought about taking Greg off the ventilator to end his life. She knew Greg wouldn’t want to be in a permanent vegatative state. But now, he’s improving to the point where he might be able to breathe on his own. The thought of him without that tube down his throat is the best thing she’s thought in a long time.

Steph reaches out and takes Greg’s hand again. She entwines her fingers in his and squeezes. Greg’s pinky twitches. She stares down at their hands. For a second, she contemplates pressing the call button again, but she’s already paged Doctor Sachar once today, and it was such a subtle movement she’s not even sure it happened.

She squeezes again. This time there’s a definite squeeze back. Her own fingers start trembling.

“You can hear me,” she whispers. “You can hear me, can’t you?”

Greg is frustratingly unresponsive.

“We’ll get through this.” She bends down and kisses Greg’s hand. “You’ll wake up, and we’ll talk, and we’ll get through that, too.”

She presses the call button again.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s past 10 PM when Mycroft makes his way to Greg’s room. Visiting hours are over of course, which means he owes a favor to the health secretary, but needs must. Greg’s room is dark. Mycroft likes to think that Greg is sleeping, but of course that isn’t the case. The ventilator, with its rhythmic, robotic hiss, is breathing for him. Mycroft crosses to Greg’s bed and turns on the lamp, blinks as the yellow light floods the room. He leans over Greg, watches his pupils shrink in response to the light. Hopefully, Greg is still in there, somewhere.

“We’ve got him,” he says. “I wanted to personally give you the good news.”

Hiss. Click. Clunk. Hiss. Is the only reply.

“His name is Jaxon Reid. A common lowlife.” A lump forms in his throat. “I regret to say that he’s currently in the custody of Scotland Yard.” He swallows. “I wanted to send him to a black site in Yemen. Your wife says that you would not approve. And she’s right. So. I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t do that. To you.”

Hiss. Click. Clunk. Hiss.

“I don’t know if you can hear me. I don’t… lend credence to the existence of any sort of higher power. I’ve never been one for prayer. But I find myself hoping on hope that the universe will see fit for you to wake. And be well. I care for you.” Mycroft set his hand atop Greg’s. “Very much. I know that that may not have been apparent when last we met. I was…. Uncertain.” He licked his lips. “No. I was afraid. I was afraid of letting you get too close because I thought you would end up seeing it as a mistake. And that you would leave, and that I would be heartbroken. But I realize now that…” his breath caught, “I realize now that I was afraid of the wrong things. That it’s far worse to regret not having done something, than to regret doing something.”

Hiss. Click. Clunk. Hiss.

“I regret--”

Hiss. Click. Clunk. Choke. Gag.

Mycroft’s eyes widen. His heart races.

Greg gags again

Mycroft presses the call button. “Greg,” he says. “You’re intubated. Don’t fight it. You’re safe.” He grabs Greg’s hand.

Greg clenches his fingers.

“I’m here.” Mycroft squeezes back. “I’m here with you.”

Greg chokes.

“You’re at St. Thomas’s hospital. You were in a coma. Help is coming.”

The night nurse rushes in. “What’s happening?” She looks at Greg, who’s still fighting the tube in his throat. “Oh.”

“Get that tube out of him!” says Mycroft.

“I’m sorry sir, I can’t. I’ll go fetch Doctor Whan. She’s on call.” She runs out of the room.

Mycroft stares helplessly at Greg. “I’m so sorry Greg. I know it hurts.”

Greg’s eyes fix on Mycroft. He makes a croaking sound.

“Shhh.” Mycroft soothes him. “Don’t try to speak.”

The night nurse returns with a wheeled cart and a short Asian woman with glasses.

“Mister Lestrade,” she says, “I’m Doctor Whan. Please. Try to relax.” She looks at the monitors on the ventilator. Little of it makes sense to Mycroft, but he can see that Greg’s heart rate is elevated. He tightens his grip on Greg’s hand.

“Your blood oxygen levels are good. I’m going to take this tube out so you can breathe on your own.”

She crosses to the far wall and opens a cabinet and pulls out a box of latex gloves. Mycroft watches helplessly as she puts on gloves and a surgical mask. He knows they’re necessary, but Greg is suffering. She grabs a disposable pad and unfolds it, places it on Greg’s chest.

“Now,” She says, “I’m going to lift you up. She elevates the head of Greg’s bed. “We’re going to use some suction to make sure your airway is clear.” She opens a drawer of the cart and removes a small wand, which she inserts into Greg’s mouth. “I’m going to suction your trachea and pharynx.”

Mycroft continues to hold Greg’s hand. Greg’s eyes are focused on Doctor Whan. It’s clear he sees her.

Greg’s eyes dart to Mycroft.

Doctor Whan hits a button on the ventilator. “Take some deep breaths for me. Can you do that, Mister Lestrade?”

Greg nods. Then coughs. Then inhales.

“I’m going to deflate the balloon now,” says Doctor Whan.

Mycroft’s heart is racing even faster than Greg’s. Greg is awake. Greg is responding to commands. Hope floods him so fully he can barely stand.

Doctor Whan puts on her stethoscope and places it to the side of Greg’s neck. “Another deep breath.” She watches the ventilator. “Great.”

She inserts a syringe into a tube hanging out of Greg’s mouth.

 _Please_. Mycroft doesn’t know who he’s begging. _Please let his faculties be intact._

“Okay,” Dr Whan tells Greg. “More deep breaths. Deep breaths.”

Greg inhales audibly. “Good. Now what I’m going to do is have you take a deep breath for me and hold it, and then I’m going to take the tube out while you’re holding that big inhalation. You got that?”

Greg nods.

“Okay.” She reaches for a pair of scissors on the tray. “I’m just going to snip this.” She slides the scissors under the tape across Greg’s mouth while holding the tube with her other hand. She snips the tape, then reaches under Greg’s head and unfastens the tape on the other side. “I know this doesn’t feel great.” She peels the tape off his face. “Big breath in.”

Greg breathes.

She grabs the syringe dangling from the line coming out of Greg’s mouth. “Another big breath in. Now hold it.”

Mycroft holds his breath, too.

She pulls the tube out.

Greg coughs.

“That’s great. Cough it out. Cough it out.”

She lifts the suction wand again. “And, more suction. Can you put your mouth around this for me?” She inserts it in Greg’s mouth. “Now I’m going to give you some supplemental oxygen. Just for support.” She lifts a nasal cannula from the tray behind Greg’s head. “This is going to go in your nose.” She inserts the prongs into Greg’s nose and slides the tubes behind his ears. “How does that feel?”

Greg makes a grunting sound.

Mycroft lets out his breath slowly.

“It’s okay. It may hurt to talk for a while.” She puts her stethoscope against Greg’s neck again. “Can you take another deep breath?”

Greg coughs, then inhales.

Mycroft watches his chest rise. He times his own breaths with Greg’s.

“That sounds great.” She reaches over to the ventilator. “And, let’s switch this guy off.”

The hissing Mycroft had stopped noticing suddenly ceases.

“Okay.” She gathers the assorted tubes on Greg’s chest and rolls them up in the pad she placed on Greg’s chest and bins them. Then she moves the hoses from the ventilator out of Greg’s way. “I’m going to listen to your chest this time.” She slides the stethoscope under Greg’s blanket. “Great. Nice and clear.”

Relief floods him.

“Can you say a few words for me, Mister Lestrade?”

“Steph,” says Greg.

Mycroft’s heart clenches.

“She’s not here right now,” says Mycroft. “Would you like me to call her?”

Greg nods.

“Who’s that?” asks Dr Whan.

“Wife,” says Greg.

“I’ll phone her,” says Mycroft. He turns to Dr Whan. “And would you be so good as to page Doctor Sachar?”

“Yes,” she says. “Of course.”

Mycroft has never dialed Stephanie, but he’s programmed her number into his phone, just in case. He dials it.

The phone rings. And rings. Mycroft wills her to answer. Greg wants Stephanie; Mycroft will procure her for him.

“Hello?”

“It’s Mycroft Holmes. I’m at the hospital. He’s awake.”

“Oh! Oh, that’s wonderful.”

It is. He has to remind himself that Greg is awake. He seems to be intact. He’s asking for his wife. And that’s wonderful.

“I’ll be there right away.”

Mycroft hangs up.

* * *

Steph’s eyes have dark circles under them but they’re bright. She brushes past Mycroft and smiles broadly at Greg. “Oh my God. Honey, you’re up.” She takes a seat in the chair at the side of the bed and takes Greg’s hand.

“Steph,” says Greg.

“I’m here,” she says. “I’m here.”

She glances at Mycroft. “What are you doing here?”

Mycroft clears his throat. “I just came to inform Greg that we caught his assailant.”

Greg’s brows furrow.

“You were mugged,” says Mycroft. “By a man named Jaxon Reid. He stole your wallet. You gave chase. He put you in a chokehold which rendered you unconscious. You’ve been in a coma for eight days.”

Stephanie scowls, petting Greg’s arm. “Not now, Mycroft. You’re upsetting him.”

“No,” says Greg. “I want....” he coughs. “Want to know.”

“We’ve been searching CCTV and we found him. He’s in custody at the Yard at this moment.”

Greg scowls.

“Do you remember the incident?” asks Mycroft.

Greg shakes his head, then coughs again.

“What’s the last thing you do remember?” asks Steph.

Greg grimaces. “Can’t.” He bites his lip.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to push it right now.”

Concern wells up in Mycroft’s chest.

“How.” Greg struggles. “Long?”

“You were in a coma for eight days.” Mycroft says again. It worries him that Greg doesn’t remember. “It’s January 16th,” he adds.

“No,” Greg says. He shakes his head again.

Stephanie lift’s Greg’s hand to her lips and kisses it. The casual intimacy makes Mycroft’s stomach twist. “It’s okay, Greg. You don’t have to try to remember now.” 

“Oldacre,” says Greg.

“The case goes to trial in two weeks,” says Mycroft. Good. Greg remembers something from work at least.

“Caught him?” asks Greg

_Shit._

“Yes,” says Mycroft. “You were the arresting officer.”

Greg closes his eyes. “Don’t remember.”

“That’s okay,” says Mycroft. “Your memories will come back in time.” _Will they?_

There’s a knock on the door, which then opens.

“Hello.” Doctor Sachar’s voice is warm. “Mister Lestrade. It’s great to see you awake.”

Greg frowns.

“I’m Doctor Sachar. I’m responsible for your care.”

“Home,” says Greg.

“Not yet, I’m afraid. We need to monitor you for a bit, yet. How do you feel?” he asks.

“Shit.”

“Understandable. You were unconscious and intubated for eight days. How’s your throat?”

“Hurts.”

“Anything else hurt?”

Greg scowls. “All… all things.”

Mycroft starts. _Can he not remember the word ‘everything.’?_

“I’ll be sure to get you something for the pain,” says Doctor Sachar. “Can you tell me how bad your pain is on a scale of one to ten?”

Greg stares at his fingers.

_He’s counting them. Cor! Can he not count to ten?_

“Eight.”

“Okay. We’ll get you the good drugs then. I promise.”

“As for you two,” says Doctor Sachar. “I know that Greg waking up is wonderful and exciting but he needs to rest and visiting hours are over. I’m going to have to ask you to come back tomorrow.”

“I’ll be here at ten,” says Stephanie. She looks significantly at Mycroft.

“I have work to attend to,” says Mycroft. “Goodnight, Gregory. Goodnight, and thank you, Doctor Sachar. And you, Stephanie.” He ducks out of the door. He walks down the fluorescently-lit hall. Greg doesn’t remember the last several weeks. Everything they were, whatever they might have had, has vanished. There’s no reason for him to come back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I updated the tags again. I'm getting a better idea of what shape Greg's injury is taking as I'm writing. And I split chapter 6 in two because it got so long, so, the chapter count is going up. Also, upping that rating from M to E because the boys just wouldn't behave.

For the first time in eight days, Steph arrives at the hospital with a smile on her face. Her afghan-in-progress is in a tote bag under her arm. She says hello to the receptionist at the private wing, then heads for Greg’s room. She knocks on the door and lets herself in.

Greg is sitting up, sheet folded down to expose his hospital gown. He’s not wearing the nasal cannula anymore, and her heart soars to see his face again without any hardware on it. A tray with the remnants of breakfast on it sits beside him. _Oh, they’re feeding him solid food, now. That’s great._

“Hey,” she says. “Morning.”

“Steph.”

His eyes track her just fine, but his intonation is flat. She can’t read it. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” There’s no polite way to ask this. “Do you remember last night?”

He nods. “Woke up.” His voice is scratchy. Probably from the tube in his throat.

“Yeah. That must have been scary.” And fucking Mycroft Holmes was there, lurking about after hours, and she had missed it.

“I was out eight days.”

“I know. I was so afraid I’d lose you.”

“Sorry.”

“Please. Don’t be. Greg, none of this is your fault.”

“Mycroft says. I chase…” Greg searches for words.

Stephanie’s heart sinks. She forces her smile in place.

“The... perpetual. I chase him. My fault.”

“No. No, Greg. He did this.” Jaxon Reid. She regrets telling Mycroft not to send him to Saudi Arabia.

It worries her that Greg is searching for words, replacing them with nonsense. She hopes these new speech impediments aren’t permanent. It’s not that she isn’t beyond grateful he’s awake and talking. But she’s frightened, too. _How much of his memory has he lost? Will he ever recover it?_ And the question that shames her but to which she must know the answer. _Does he know about Daren?_

 _“_ What’s the last thing you remember?” she asks.

“Christmas shopping. Remember shops. Don’t know … um ... what got.”

Steph doesn’t know either. Whatever he’d bought, he never gave it to her. She’d ruined Christmas.

“Do you know when that was? Close to Christmas, or weeks before?”

He shakes his head.

 _Shit._ She knew that this was a possibility. But seeing Greg awake had made her optimistic, and she had foolishly come in expecting everything to be better.

There’s a knock at the door. Steph recognizes the polite three raps by now. Doctor Sachar.

“Good Morning.” He opens the door. “So good to see you up and at ‘em Mister Lestrade. How are you feeling?”

Greg shrugs. “Better.”

“That’s great.”

“Go home?”

“Probably soon. We’ll need to run some tests, first.”

“Feel fine.”

“That’s wonderful. But we still need to evaluate you.”

“You think... something wrong ... my brain.”

“It’s all standard procedure.”

Greg growls. “Nothing wrong … with me.”

Steph starts. It’s so unlike him to be this aggressive, especially with a stranger trying to help.

“I understand there are some gaps in your memory.”

“Come back?”

“They may. Or the memory loss may be permanent.”

Greg’s face crumples.

“Is there any way to tell?” Steph asks. “Some kind of imaging, maybe?”

“We did an MRI and a CT when he came in. There were no signs of stroke or hemorrhage. But you can’t diagnose a traumatic brain injury based on imaging alone.”

Traumatic brain injury. Like the soldiers coming home from Afghanistan. Is that what Doctor Sachar thinks is wrong with Greg?

“Why bother… running pencils?” asks Greg.

“What you just did there,” said Doctor Sachar. “Substituting one word with another. That’s a sign of aphasia.”

“What?” asks Greg. “Trouble forming sentences or understanding them,” says Doctor Sachar.

“I… I... understand fine.” Greg stammers.

“The ability to create language and the ability to comprehend it are controlled by different parts of the brain. You can have damage to one area and not another.”

“Brain damage.”

“I’m saying you’re displaying signs of aphasia. We can help you with that. You can go to speech therapy. And there are other treatments. Transcranial magnetic stimulation. Transcranial direct current stimulation. These use magnetic fields or electrical current to stimulate the brain.”

Steph’s eyes widen. She pictures Greg strapped to a gurney with electrodes on his head. “Like electroshock therapy?” Doctor Sachar shakes his head. “Not at all. It’s very mild. Both treatments are non-invasive.”

“Don’t. Want.” There’s that aggression again. It makes her so nervous. She reaches out for his arm, gives it a gentle pat.

“Greg, honey. He’s trying to help.”

Greg bats her arm away.

It stings.

“No doubt you are tired,” says Doctor Sachar. “We can discuss this at a later time.”

“I want. Go… Home.” Greg’s face is red.

“Is there any way you could discharge him?” asks Steph. “We’d come back for an assessment later.”

Doctor Sachar looks at Steph, then Greg, then back again. “I strongly recommend he stay for observation. But we can’t make him. If you want to go home, you can go home.”

* * *

Steph pushes open the door to their house, Greg trailing. They walk through the kitchen and into the sitting room, which is dominated by an artificial tree decorated in silver and crystal.

“Christmas Tree.”

It frightens her, hearing him talk like this. It’s not that what he says is incoherent, but he drops filler words like articles and prepositions. He sounds like a toddler.

“I’ll take it down.”

“Don’t. Pretty.”

She shrugs and sets her tote on the sofa.

“What do you feel like doing?” she asks. “Nap. Ummm... Headache.”

“Do you want to take something?” 

“No.”

Greg heads upstairs. Steph follows him. He unbuttons his shirt as he walks, shucks it onto the bedroom floor. He strips off his trousers after. He opens the wardrobe, standing in front of it in his socks and boxers.

“Clothes?” he asks.

 _Shit._ Greg packed a bag and took it with him when he moved out. Steph doesn’t even know what hotel he went to.

“They're at the cleaners,” she lies.

Greg shrugs and takes a clean t-shirt out of the wardrobe. He pulls it over his head. Then he shuffles over to the bed and flops down on it, not even bothering to turn the covers down. Steph gathers his clothes off the floor and walks into the ensuite. She fishes Greg’s wallet out of the back pocket of his trousers and opens it, rifles through until she finds the key to a hotel. It has the place’s website on the bottom, under their logo. She’ll call them tomorrow and see if they have Greg’s things. She tosses his clothes in the hamper and slips the key into her back pocket.

She doesn’t like lying. But now doesn’t seem the time to tell Greg that he asked her for a divorce and moved out. They need to have this conversation at some point, but, well, he’s just gotten home. And he’s not exactly himself. That latter part is what worries her the most.

* * *

The next day, Steph takes Greg back to St Thomas’s for a battery of tests. She has to wait outside for most of them as she’s deemed a potential distraction. So she sits and works on her Afghan, crocheting in different shades of brown, mimicking the patterns she saw on the fossil ammonite she found on the beach in Dorset. She’s unclear what it means anymore. When she started, she was so sure that the ammonite was about growth, about making a new life without Greg. Except that now, Greg is not only back in her life, he’s probably going to be her whole world. There’s something a bit terrifying about that.

Greg comes out of the room with Doctor Avanthkar, the speech therapist. She’s a short, curvy, South Asian woman with hair cut into a severe black bob. Steph’s face immediately flies to Greg. He looks glum, mouth downturned and brow creased.

“How’d it go?” she ventures.

“I fell,” says Greg.

Doctor Avanthkar shakes her head. “You did not fail. There is no success or failure at this test. It’s an assessment tool.”

“Did bad.”

She shrugs. “Your scores indicate you have Broca’s Aphasia.”

“What’s that?” asks Steph.

“It means that Greg has suffered damage to the Broca’s area of the brain, which is responsible for producing language.”

Brain damage. Those words are out in the open, now. They terrify her.

“His comprehension skills seem unaffected, but he has difficulty accessing words. It takes more of an effort for him to speak, and he may do things like substitute words he can’t remember for related words, like saying ‘cat’ when he means ‘dog,’ or similar.”

“Get better?” asks Greg.

“Almost certainly. You will improve with time and therapy.”

Steph breathes a quiet sigh of relief. “How long does it take?”

“The most progress tends to be made between two and six months after a brain injury. After that, progress slows. But it’s always possible to make continuous improvements.”

So she’ll know, more or less, how impaired Greg’s going to be for the rest of his life in six months. That’s frightening and a relief at the same time. It also feels very far away.

“There are a number of support groups for aphasia patients in London. I’m going to recommend that Greg join one.”

“Of course,” says Steph. “That sounds like a great idea.”

“You should consider joining a support group as well,” says Doctor Avanthkar. “For caregivers. It’s a stressful job.”

“Thanks,” says Steph. “I will.”

* * *

Every morning, Steph gets up while Greg is still asleep and makes breakfast. Then she takes him to St Thomas’s. Greg has speech therapy for two hours from ten to noon with Doctor Avanthkar. Then he and Steph eat lunch together at the hospital, which has shit food, but it’s easier and more convenient than going someplace else. After lunch, Greg has physical therapy with Doctor Stevens. He has some weakness in his right hand, which is apparently common in aphasia patients, since the language center is in the left side of the brain, which controls the right side of the body. His handwriting is illegible. To be fair, Greg’s handwriting was never great, but now, it's a complete scrawl. And he leaves out articles and prepositions when he writes, just like when he talks.

And when he talks… Steph constantly has to remind herself that his intelligence hasn’t been affected at all. Just his language skills. It’s hard to remember that she doesn’t need to talk slower or repeat things for him. Doctor Avanthkar has assured her that Greg comprehends language just fine. She sent Steph a link to an online aphasia simulator which is supposed to help her understand what Greg is going through. It would show her pictures of objects and have her type in their names, which the program changed to something else. She’d see a picture of a hammer and type “nail.” It was really frustrating. No wonder Greg is irritable all the time.

They’re home from the hospital around three. Afterwards, Greg usually flops on the sofa in the sitting room and watches trash telly, either reality shows or football. Sometimes she sits with him and works on her afghan, but there’s only so much of that garbage she can take. Usually he falls asleep watching. He’s sleeping twelve to fourteen hours a day.

Doctor Sachar says that the brain heals itself while sleeping, and that TBI patients need lots of rest. Traumatic brain injury. He’d thrown those words out so casually that first morning after Greg had woken. And Steph is only just beginning to understand what they mean. Greg has a brain injury. His recovery is going to take months. If he ever fully recovers. She’s only been at it two weeks and already she’s exhausted. She wishes she could sleep fourteen hours a day, too.

But, she doesn’t. She takes Greg to therapy, and does the laundry and the tidying, and she cooks. Tonight, she’s making a Sunday Roast. It’s Thursday, but it doesn’t matter. The past two weeks have been a bitch and she’s craving something homey. The kitchen smells like rib roast, with undercurrents of rosemary and bay leaf. She opens the oven door and checks the meat thermometer. 49 degrees. Ten more minutes and supper will be ready.

She sets the table, in the dining room, not the kitchen. She uses the good china. The roast deserves it. She lights some white taper candles. She’ll tell him tonight. She hates having the thought that he might remember hanging over her like the sword of Damocles. He should hear the truth from her.

“Greg,” she pops her head into the sitting room. “Supper’s ready.”

Greg stands up from the sofa and trudges to the table. He’s wearing joggers and a grease stained t-shirt. He’s been eating crisps in front of the telly and wiping his fingers on his shirt front. Lovely.

“Not hungry.”

She forces a smile. “That’s okay. Why don’t you sit with me anyway. I want to talk.”

Greg plops down beside her. “What you want talk about?”

“Do you remember anything new?” she asks. “Anything at all?”

He shakes his head. “Sucks. I want write Oldacre files, but work says ’m not authorized. Don’t remember anything. Fuck. Therapy today… couldn’t remember subtraction. ‘M useless. Never go back.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you.”

“Hate this. Don’t feel….” he rubs his forehead. “Can’t remember…. Um…. word... how I feel. Shit.”

“Look, I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to be patient and do your therapy homework. You’ll get there. And until you do, I’ve got you.”

“Don’t want you support me. What kinda man eats his wife’s trust fund?”

It stings. “It’s your trust fund, too, Greg. And right now it’s making it possible for both of us to not work while you go to therapy full time.”

“Your parents.... Never liked me. I marry you… umm… for money.”

“I know. But we both know that’s bollocks, right?”

He shrugs. “I’m loser.”

Her heart clenches. You’re not a loser. You’re working so hard. I see it and I respect it and I am proud of you.”

“I hate therapy. ‘M embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. You were injured. There’s absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. It’s no different than if you broke your leg and needed rehab to walk again.”

“‘M brain damaged.”

“Don’t say that.”

Greg slams his palm on the table. “Fucking don’t tell me what to say!” he shouts.

She flinches. In all their years of marriage, Greg has raised his voice to her only a handful of times, and hasn't cursed at her since he found out about Brandon.

“‘M sorry. Shouldn’t have… But you just… Um…. You don’t get... how hard. How much it sucks.”

“I don’t. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to be supportive.”

“Don’t take me. I don’t … um … like you.”

Steph’s eyes widen.

“There,” says Greg. “Not don’t like you. Don’t like you … see me. Like this.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Call taxi.”

“Okay,” if that’s what Greg wants. “Next week I’ll let you go alone.”

“Good.”

Steph sighs. Now seems not the best time to bring up the affair with Darren. She shredded the divorce decree. She surreptitiously went to the hotel in Lambeth and picked up Greg’s clothes, then stopped by his dry cleaners and asked for bags with their logo. She feels shitty, lying to him. But he’s clearly struggling, and mentioning that ‘hey, by the way, you found out I was sleeping with someone else and asked for a divorce,’ is only going to make things worse. Things are bad. But she knows exactly how much worse they could be. And now doesn’t seem the time to push it.


	6. Chapter 6

“Can you name the object in the picture?” Doctor Avanthkar asks. She’s seated across from Greg at a wooden table.

Greg stares at the photo of a Labrador. “Dog.”

“What about that one?” She points at a picture of a train. 

“Tram.” _Shit_. “Umm… train.”

“Good.”

They do this at the start of every session, and Greg always struggles. Of course he knows that the old lady in the picture with the smiling children is the Grandmother. But he stumbles over the words. Everything always feels just on the tip of his tongue. 

“Can you describe this for me?” Doctor Avanthkar shows Greg a picture of a cake with colored icing.

“Fattening.”

She laughs. “Go on.”

“Pink. Cherries. Umm… sweet.”

“Do you like cake, Mister Lestrade?”

“Yeah.”

Doctor Avanthkar takes out a tablet and shows him the intro to the movie _Up_. Greg has never seen it. He watches the silent story of Carl and Ellie play out, from their wedding, to their buying and renovating a ramshackle house, to picnics with cloud-gazing. Suddenly, the clouds all turn into babies.

 _Steph wanted to have babies._ The young couple paints a nursery only to cut to another scene where a doctor speaks to a crying Ellie while Carl stands behind her with his hands on her shoulders. What happened there? Infertility? Miscarriage? Steph had been distraught after each of their three failed rounds of IVF. And after the third one didn’t take, she’d been so heartbroken they’d agreed not to try again.

Greg watches as the young couple grows steadily older together, in a montage of ever-changing neckties, and their dream of having a house on top of a waterfall in South America never manifests as all the money they save goes into paying for assorted accidents and troubles. But just when Carl buys plane tickets to Venezuela and packs them in a picnic basket to present to Ellie, she collapses. And things go downhill for her from there; the last scene is of poor Carl leaving Ellie’s funeral and returning to their little house alone.

“Can you tell me what that story was about?” asks Doctor Avanthkar.

Greg opens his mouth. Words won’t come. Tears well in his eyes.

“I know,” she says. “It’s a sad story.”

He shakes his head. It is a sad story. But mostly, he feels sorry for himself. “The fuck,” he asks, “any of this… um... whether I go work?”

Doctor Avanthkar purses her lips. “I know this is hard for you. But you have to trust me. All of this is going to help your language skills improve.”

“Go back?” He sounds like an idiot. Nothing is coming. 

“That may be possible in time.”

“ _May_ be.” Greg cannot invision a world in which he does not go back to work. And Doctor Avanthkar is so blase about the possibility he might not, like she’s saying he might not get tea in the afternoon.

“I can’t give you a guarantee. But if we both do our best, you may be able to return to work. I know your work as a police officer was important to you.”

“I’m a DI.”

“Sorry I misspoke. I remember. You definitely need to work on your language skills, then.”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll work towards it.”

Greg sighs. “Okay. Ummm. The story. It was about a couple….”

* * *

Greg pulls himself together to work with Doctor Stevens. He likes physical therapy better. Work the muscles, they will strengthen. This, he understands. Doctor Stevens is older, probably close to retirement age, with longish, wavy gray hair and a droopy moustache. Greg sits in an armed chair. Doctor Stevens attaches electrodes to Greg’s right arm and turns on a TENS unit. The current feels weird. A tingly sensation runs up his whole arm. The muscles contract, and his hand moves on its own, lifting up off the arm of the chair Greg’s sitting in. His palm opens wide and his fingers curl into a claw. If he tries to fight it, it hurts. But if he just lets his hand do its thing, it’s not so bad.

Today, Doctor Stevens adds some new range-of-motion exercises. Greg stands in front of the wall and reaches forward, touching different points which are marked with post-it notes. He repeats the exercise with a small weight in his right hand. He does tricep raises and extensions with the weight as well. It’s tiring, but this kind of fatigue he understands. And at the end of the session, he gets a hand massage. He likes Doctor Stevens.

* * *

Greg does _not_ like Doctor Jeffers. He knows he has to clear a psych eval before being allowed back on duty after an assault. Still, meeting with his shrink is the part of rehab he hates the most.

“How are you feeling today, Mister Lestrade,” asks Doctor Jeffers, peering over the top of his rimless spectacles. He has sharp blue eyes and a neatly trimmed white beard.

“Shite,” says Greg.

Doctor Jeffers nods, as though he understands, which of course he doesn’t. He makes a note on a yellow legal pad.

“How is your language therapy progressing?”

“Okay.” Greg plays with the fringe on a pillow on top of Doctor Jeffers’ overstuffed sofa.

“How’s your mood been?”

“Cursed at Steph,” Greg admits. “And Doctor Avanthkar.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand what happened, or they don’t understand you?”

“They. Don’t… um… understand.”

Doctor Jeffers nods. “And how did that make you feel?”

“Angry.”

“You lost your temper and you cursed both times.”

“Yeah.”

Doctor Jeffers nods again, like Greg is saying he takes his coffee black. If he’s worried Greg lost his temper, it doesn’t show.

“Have you apologized?”

“No.”

“You might want to do that.”

Greg shrugs.

“Have you tried the breathing exercises we practiced last week?”

“No.”

“They might help when you feel angry. Use them before you lash out at people, especially the people who are trying to help you.”

“‘Kay.” Greg is glad the aphasia gives him an excuse not to talk much.

“What about depression. Do you have feelings of pessimism and hopelessness?”

“Yeah.”

“Loss of interest in things you once enjoyed?”

Greg shrugs. “Can’t work.”

“What about football; you still enjoy watching?”

“Fall asleep.”

“Sex?”

Greg and Steph haven’t had sex in… well, assuming they didn’t have sex during the weeks he can’t remember, months. “Been a while.”

“Cramps, pains, headaches?”

“Headaches.”

Doctor Jeffers rubs his bearded chin. “I know I’ve brought this up before, but especially since these feelings are persisting, I would recommend you take a low dose of an antidepressant.”

Greg shakes his head. “Don’t want drugs.”

“Alright. We can work on managing your symptoms with therapy.”

Greg hates therapy. It’s better than drugs, though. He doesn’t want to be some fucking zombie.

* * *

As agreed, Steph arranges for a taxi to take Greg home. It’s a relief to not have her there, trying to be so bloody helpful. Greg always feels like he’s disappointing her somehow.

He fiddles with his phone in the back of the cab. Greg wants to know what’s going on with his case. But no one will tell him anything. He’s locked out of the Yard’s computer system. He’s not, however, locked out of Google, so he runs a search for Jaxon Reid. There’s nothing new. The stories are the same ones he’s been seeing for a couple of weeks now, all stating that the man has been released on bail pending trial. Greg keeps looking for a trial date, but it looks like one hasn’t been set.

He should call someone from the yard and try to get the scoop. Sally? He dismisses the idea as soon as he thinks of it. She’s loyal to him, but she’s too by-the-book. She won’t leak information. Anderson? Nah. The guy may not be technically on probation anymore, but he’s not going to want to step out of line. He debates calling Sherlock, but probably the Yard knows he’d call Sherlock and would keep him in the dark, too. So not Sherlock. But maybe Mycroft. Mycroft is the one who told him about Jaxon Reid in the first place. And Mycroft knows everything. They wouldn’t be able to keep him in the dark if they wanted to. Greg goes through his phone. He must have Mycroft’s number somewhere.

He finds Mycroft’s number, almost calls it, then realizes that it’s now six in the evening and that most people who don’t have rehab all day are probably eating dinner. Better text instead.

He opens up his messages to Mycroft Holmes.

January 1st. 12:05 AM: **Goodnight, Gregory.**

Well that’s odd. Why would Mycroft have texted him after midnight? He scrolls up.

January 1st. 12:04 AM: **Thanks. Night Mike.**

January 1st. 12:04 AM: **Please refrain from using nicknames.**

January 1st. 12:04 AM: **Sorry. Call me tomorrow?**

January 1st. 12:04 AM: **Drink a glass of water.**

January 1st. 12:04 AM: **Will do.**

Okay, so, looks like he was drunk texting Mycroft on New Years Eve. Why would he have been drunk texting Mycroft Holmes, of all people? He scrolls further up.

January 1st. 12:00 AM: **Happy New Year! I hope Anthea let you kiss her.**

**__** _What the fuck?_

January 1st. 12:01 AM: **To you as well, Gregory.**

January 1st. 12:01 AM: **Actually, I’m kinda hoping you didn’t kiss her. I’d be jealous. Sorry. Shouldn’t have said tht. I’m a little bit drunk.**

 ** __** _Seriously? He was fucking drunk_ flirting _with Mycroft Holmes?_

January 1st. 12:02 AM: **I wish i could’ve been with youu tonight. Know your busy. I hope you had a good 3 days off. Also wanted to tell you its over. Me and Steph. I took your advice. Im at a hotel.**

Greg’s blood chills. _It’s over. Me and Steph._

January 1st. 12:02 AM: **I want to see you. Not tonight. Need to sober up. I’m not that stupd. Maybe we could meet for coffee next week?**

He reads the messages. Again. And again. These days he struggles with writing, but he can read just fine. And he might have amnesia and a traumatic brain injury, but he’s still a bloody detective. These messages clearly imply he was having an affair with Mycroft Holmes. And left Stephanie for him. Or was going to. And then he got mugged.

Greg sets the phone down on the back seat of the cab. His mind is blown. It’s not that he doesn’t remember finding Mycroft Holmes attractive. He always has. Ever since uni, Greg’s had a thing for the posh buttoned-up public school types. Of both genders. But he remembers nothing about the affair. It can’t have been going on very long, because he remembers things up to a few weeks before Christmas. _Fuck_. He fucking cheated on Stephanie over Christmas. _What an arsehole._

He picks up his phone again and scrolls through the rest of his messages from Mycroft. Then he checks his emails, too. There’s nothing incriminating. Just a few texts about Sherlock. Probably he deleted them. Except on New Year’s Eve, when he was drunk and forgot. _Wow._

And Mycroft, fucking showed up at the hospital, with Steph right there, and cool as a cucumber, didn’t let anything on. But he never came back. Why? _Fuck_. Mycroft probably deduced that Greg doesn’t remember their affair, and that’s why he’s stayed away. How would Greg feel if someone just bloody _forgot_ him? Does Mycroft have feelings for him? Was it just sex? There must have been something there if he was going to leave Steph. Although, to be honest, he remembers things being rocky with Steph. After she cheated on him with Brandon Sykes, some chump from work, things had been, well.... Greg had suggested that she stay with her parents for a few days, and Steph had moved out. Got herself a little flat in Pimlico. And Greg had missed her. Or he’d thought he had. Maybe absence made the heart grow fonder, or something. But when she actually came home he discovered he was still angry. And things had been pretty chilly for the last few months. Enter Mycroft Holmes. Apparently.

Was it just about revenge? Greg doesn’t feel like that’s the kind of thing he’d do. There must have been some kind of connection. But he’s racking his brain, and… nothing. It’s so frustrating. He wants to call Mycroft and demand he spill the whole story. But that seems like a spectacularly stupid idea.

And Steph. Does she know? Does she suspect? She’s been so bloody… _helpful_ since the assault. Greg doesn’t know what to do. He should feel grateful, but he doesn’t. He resents her endless patience, her forced smiles, that giant ugly brown afghan she drags around. He’s still angry, he guesses, and he’s not even sure why. He said that he forgave her for Brandon. That it was done and dusted. But he still can’t bring himself to feel anything like warmth towards her, and that’s shitty, that’s not fair to her, and if he couldn’t love her properly he should have left instead of bloody cheating on her like some… cad.

The taxi stops at Greg’s front door. Shit. He should have asked the cabbie to take him to the pub instead. Greg fumbles for his wallet, pays the cabbie, and walks up to the front doorstep.

He unlocks the door. He’s done this a million times, but something about this time gives him a powerful sense of _déjà vu_. He’s about to have a conversation he and Steph must have had before. But she remembers it, and he doesn’t. 

“Steph?” He calls inside.

“In the kitchen!” She calls back.

Greg closes the door behind him and takes off his coat. Underneath, he’s wearing the joggers and the hoodie he wore to therapy. 

He walks through the living room. He misses the Christmas tree. Steph left it up for a few weeks after he came home, but took it down when he started going to rehab alone. He makes his way into the kitchen.

Steph is standing by the kitchen island, which is piled high with styrofoam containers. “Did you have a good day?” she asks.

“Uh huh.”

“Supper’s here.” She gestures to the towers of containers. “It’s just takeaway. Sorry.”

The words stick in his throat. “Don’t… um… Nothing to be sorry about.”

“I got Thai. Is that okay?”

“Sure.”

They sit on bar stools at the counter. Steph opens the Styrofoam clamshells filled with pad thai. The smell of food turns Greg’s stomach. She spoons the food onto real plates. Greg would eat out of the container. But Steph has to do everything properly. Everything with her has to be so bloody perfect.

“Steph. There’s…. Um…. Something.” _Fuck._ Of all times for his fucking tongue to get tied like this. Greg's aphasia has improved after three weeks of therapy, but he's upset and that makes him regress. “We need to… talk.”

She freezes, eyes wide. She knows.

“I. I um… read. My computer.” He lays his phone on the table.

She looks at it like it’s a snake.

“I. Um…. Text Mycroft.”

“What did he say?”

“Not… um. Before….”

She nods. “Before your injury.”

“New Year’s. I was drunk.”

Her face is very blank. She knows. Why doesn’t she just say it so he doesn’t have to? Maybe it’s fair. For her to make him.

“We…. We text. We were having... an affair.” His ears burn.

“No.”

“Sorry. So…. sorry.”

“No, Greg, you’ve got it wrong.”

“I cheat… on you. Sorry.”

Steph takes a deep breath. “You didn’t. Or at least, you told me you didn’t.”

He shakes his head.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you like this. I was hoping you’d remember.”

“You… know.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“Christmas day. You came home at three in the morning.”

Shit. He really did cheat on fucking Christmas.

“I wanted to talk. You didn’t. You checked into a hotel. I went to Dorset alone.”

“Dorset?”

“We were supposed to go on holiday together. But you needed space. New Years Eve, you came home. You said you were ready to talk.”

“What? What I say?”

“You said the past six months were a mistake. That you shouldn’t have asked me to move back home. That you wanted a divorce.”

_It’s over. Me and Steph._

“I leave you. Um…. For Mycroft.”

Her cheeks turn red. “I asked you if there was someone else. You said no. But you wanted there to be. You said that you had the opportunity to cheat with him but you didn’t.”

Okay. But he’d clearly been planning on starting a relationship with Mycroft. He’d had an emotional affair, even if he hadn’t actually fucked him. 

“I… sorry.”

“Don’t be. Greg. This is my fault.”

“No.”

“I cheated on you.”

“It doesn’t…. Um… verdict. What I did.”

She shakes her head. When she speaks her voice is shaking. “I’m not talking about Brandon, Greg.”

He cocks his head.

“I mean Darren. Darren Bradshaw. I met him at my gym. We’d been having an affair for two months. You found out. Christmas Eve. You found out.”

Greg closes his eyes. _Way to bury the fucking lead, there, Steph._

“Why you not…. Um… tell me. First.”

“I should have. I’m so sorry, Greg. I meant to. I really did, but you didn’t remember, and there was no good time to bring it up.”

“I mean now. Why not… Start. With that.”

“You know what? You’re right. I should have. I should have said why you stormed out on Christmas.”

“I’m wroth.”

“That’s fair.”

“I’m really. Fucking. Steph.” He tries those breathing exercises Doctor Jeffers mentioned. He exhales, holds his breath for four seconds, inhales for four seconds, holds his breath for four seconds, exhales for four seconds, repeats. He pictures a little square shape to his breath. It doesn’t really help. He’s still furious. 

Steph watches him, brow furrowed. She sits with her hands folded, like she’s waiting for him to say something.

He pushes his stool back from the table and stands up. He walks through the kitchen and into the hallway. He opens the wardrobe and pulls out his overcoat.

“Greg, no! Greg, you can’t leave.”

“I fucking can!” he shouts.

He opens the front door, slams it behind him. 

“Greg!” he can hear her shout from inside.

Slamming the door felt good, so he opens it and slams it again.

_Fuck you Steph. You can go to fucking hell._

He walks down the pavement with purpose, then realizes he has no clue where he’s actually going. He just has to get away, get away now before he hits her, because Greg is not the kind of man who hits women, no matter how fucking angry he is. He flips open his phone and scrolls through, looking for the cab company. Then he stops, and deliberately scrolls to M.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for everyone who has been reading, and extra thanks to those of you who have taken the time to comment. Your words mean more than I can say.

“You remembered.” Mycroft says as soon as he answers the door.

Greg is standing in the doorway in his overcoat.

“No,” says Greg.

Mycroft lifts both eyebrows.

Greg takes his phone out of his coat pocket and hands it to him. Mycroft looks at the screen. It’s one of the text messages he and Greg exchanged New Year’s Eve.

“Oh,” he says. “I see.”

“Tell me.”

“Why don’t you take off your coat and come inside?”

Greg shrugs out of his coat. Underneath, he’s wearing joggers and a hoodie. They’re incongruous beneath the elegant wool coat. Mycroft takes it and hangs it in the wardrobe. He can’t help but think of the last time he did this, Christmas Eve.

Greg peels off his gloves. He struggles a bit pulling the left glove off with his right hand, even though he’s right handed. Must be an effect of his injury.

Mycroft leads the way to the sitting room. “May I offer you anything to drink?” he asks. He knows alcohol isn’t recommended for those with TBI, but he suspects Greg might just need a stiff drink tonight, and he doesn’t want to be patronizing.

“Coffee,” says Greg.

Well, that solves that ethical dilemma.

“Why don’t you have a seat in front of the fireplace. I’ll brew a fresh pot and turn on the fire.”

Greg nods and sits down. He rubs his fingers through his hair.

Mycroft goes to the mantel and retrieves the remote, turns on the gas fireplace. A fire roars up around the artificial logs. 

Then he heads into the kitchen, walking with a calmness he does not feel. Greg is here. He texted Mycroft half an hour ago and asked him to send a car to pick him up from a pub near his house, which Mycroft did, of course. And now, Greg will have questions. He takes out the French press and starts a pot of coffee, sets two cups on a tray. He finds a packet of biscuits and opens them, sets them alongside the coffee cups. He gets cream from the fridge and pours it into a little porcelain creamer, puts a spoon in the matching sugar bowl. When the coffee is ready, he pours it into the cups and carries the tray into the sitting room.

Greg is staring into the fireplace. Mycroft sets the tray on the coffee table. He wonders if Greg is thinking about Christmas Eve.

“Do you still take your coffee black?” asks Mycroft.

Greg nods.

Mycroft hands Greg one cup, then stirs a spoonful of sugar and a dash of cream into his own. He usually drinks his coffee black as well, but tonight will be trying. He deserves cream and sugar. He sits in the other club chair across from Greg.

“So,” he says. “You have questions.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you remember?”

“Nothing. I… um. Christmas shopping. I think center.... um. November.”

Mycroft has read Greg’s medical records. He knows that Greg has Broca’s Aphasia. It’s still one thing to know it intellectually and another to actually hear him speak. He knows Greg still understands him fine, and that he knows what he wants to say. Still, it makes him ache, knowing how difficult it must be.

“You came here Christmas Eve. I understand that my tactless little brother announced that your wife was being unfaithful again at his Christmas drinks night. You and she,” he can’t bring himself to say her name, “had a row.”

“And I … called you?”

“No. I called you about Sherlock, actually. As usual. You were out walking the streets and I invited you in. You accepted.”

Greg nods.

“You and she have had another row, I take it.”

“Steph … lied. Didn’t tell me. About him.”

He’s not surprised. Greg didn’t remember, which was of course to her advantage. It was foolish; she’d have done better to get out ahead of the truth and do damage control, but then, people are often short-sighted.

“What happened?” Greg asks. “With us?”

Mycroft’s lips twist. “Well. If you don’t mind, I think I need a drink for that.”

Greg shrugs.

Mycroft drains his coffee cup. He stands and goes to the bar cart, opens a decanter and pours two finger widths of scotch. He takes a sip. “Christmas Eve. We discussed the state of your marriage. You mentioned your bisexuality, which, I admit, took me by surprise. We… flirted. We had a connection.”

“Did we … sex?”

“No.”

“Steph says I… said I wanted.”

Mycroft coughs politely. “That was my impression, yes. I wanted to as well. But cooler heads prevailed, and we restrained ourselves.”

“But I text.”

“Yes. And we met for tea at my club the day of your assault.”

Greg raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t… know.”

“I keep thinking, that perhaps if you hadn’t have come to see me, you wouldn’t have ended up in that alley with Jaxon Reid.”

“No ‘what if.’ Bad. Therapist… um… says so.”

“No, you’re right. The past can’t be changed.”

“What we testify about?”

“At the Diogenes? You informed me that you’d filed for divorce from Stephanie. You expressed interest in pursuing a relationship with me. I propositioned you. You declined. You said you wanted to ‘do things right.’ We agreed to meet for lunch the following week.”

Greg takes a deep breath. “Umm…. Thank you. Know it’s hard.”

Mycroft forces a smile. “You have a right to an explanation.”

“‘M sorry. Don’t... remember.”

“Hardly your fault.”

“No, but… you care for me.”

Mycroft’s chest clenches. “I do, yes.”

“Why you not come… hospital?”

“I did. When you were still in a coma. Once you were awake, well, it was clear you didn’t remember the details of our interactions, and I thought it best not to interfere.”

“You want. Me and Steph.”

“I thought it would be in your best interest to reconcile with her, yes.”

“Why? You knew... she um… cheat.”

“With respect, it’s highly statistically likely that one partner or the other fails to uphold a monogamous commitment over the course of a lifetime. And you forgave her before, so I thought--”

“You thought,” Greg points an accusing finger at him. “Didn’t ask … me.”

“You were in a coma. And then when you woke you had amnesia. You have amnesia. I understand your anger, but you have to see that I couldn’t consult you.”

“Steph doesn’t either. I’m not…. Um… not child.”

“I know.”

Mycroft’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and stares at it. He has a new text from Stephanie Lestrade.

**Is Greg with you? He left in a strop and isn’t answering his phone. I’m worried sick please just tell me.**

Mycroft takes in a slow breath. “It’s Stephanie. She wants to know if you’re here. What do you want me to say?”

Greg grimaces. “Ignore her.”

“She’s rather distressed. That seems… unkind.”

“Fine. Um… here. Umm.... can… I stay tonight?”

Mycroft types a reply to Stephanie.

**He’s with me, yes.**

**Thank you. Please just make sure he stays safe.**

**He will be spending the night here. Don’t expect him until tomorrow morning at the earliest.**

She’s likely to assume they’re sleeping together, but that can’t be helped. He lifts his eyes from his phone and looks at Greg. “You’re welcome to stay the night, of course. The downstairs guest room is the nicest.”Mycroft puts his phone back in his pocket.

“Not guest.” says Greg. “With you.”

“Gregory--” Mycroft scrutinizes Greg’s face. He’s deadly earnest and open. “That seems unwise.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, you don’t remember our brief relationship negotiations.”

“I remember… attracted to you. Before.”

“I’m flattered. Truly I am. But now is not the time. You’ve just fought with your wife. You’re angry with her. She hurt you, so you want to hurt her back, and I’d appreciate not being used for that purpose.”

“Not what this... um... is.”

Mycroft cocked his head.

“Fine. Not all. It is.”

“What else is it, then?”

“Steph and I… over. I said.”

“Before?”

“Before. Now. Over.”

“Okay. That’s an entirely understandable choice, given the circumstances. And a few months from now, when you’ve got that sorted and you’re back on your feet, we can revisit this topic.”

“Few months. When ‘m better.”

“When you’re independent of her.”

“You’re no… um.... attracted to me.”

“I never said that.”

“‘Cause ‘m brain damaged.”

“No.”

“You think I’m… um... stupid. You only attracted. To smart people.”

Mycroft’s heart clenched. He took a deep breath. “Gregory, whatever I’ve done to give you that impression, I apologize for it. I’m entirely aware of how Broca’s Aphasia works. I know you’re as intelligent as ever.”

“Greg.”

Mycroft frowns. “I’m sorry, I don’t--”

“My name... Greg. Not Gregory.”

“I apologize, I--”

“You say ‘Gregory’... to keep distant. From me.”

“Perhaps that is true. I tend to fall back on formality when I’m uncomfortable.”

“You uncomfortable. Because I’m … um… like this.”

“No. I’m uncomfortable because you are a very attractive, very kind, exquisitely decent man. And you’re propositioning me. And I’m trying to say ‘no’ without hurting you and I don’t know how.”

“Say ‘yes.’”

Mycroft smiles bitterly. “Would that I could.”

“You can.”

Mycroft takes another sip of whiskey. The burn slithers down his throat. He sets down the glass. “Last month, when we were having tea at the Diogenes, I said I wanted to retire to my rooms and for you to fuck me until I couldn’t see straight.”

Greg chuckles. “‘M still up for it.”

“Yes, well, you weren’t. At the time, you were very much taken aback by my overtures, and I regretted making them.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s my way. Sex without attachment. But not yours. You wanted ‘to take things slow, not jump into bed right away.’ You said you wanted to ‘do right’ by me. I found it very old-fashioned. Borderline prudish. But now, I think I understand.”

“What?”

“Delaying physical pleasure was your way of showing you cared. That you wanted something long-term. You wanted to tell me that I wasn’t a revenge fuck, or a rebound fuck. And now….”

“You think I don’t… um... care. Anymore.” There’s a downward turn to his mouth and a sad, puppyish look in his eyes.

Mycroft licks his lips.

Greg nods. “I understand. You think… um… ‘m just tryin’ to um…. get a leg over.”

“Put crudely, yes.”

“‘S not it.” Greg sighs. He rubs his fingers against his brow. “All my life. I… um... put other first. Steph. Job. You. I put off what I want. I try do right. By you. Steph. Marriage vows. I say wait. And then I… um... almost die. I say wait. And then no more time.”

Mycroft nods.

“You want… I um… leave Steph. Get better. I don’t know I get better.”

“You will,” Mycroft is emphatic.

Greg shrugs. “I know I want you… now. I know I care… you… now.” He stands up and crosses the span between their chairs, places one hand on Mycroft’s cheek. “What if no ‘few months?’” His tone is earnest, pleading. “What if…. um... no tomorrow?”

Mycroft looks up at Greg. There are tears welling in Greg’s eyes. An emotion rises inside him that he can’t name. Tenderness, perhaps, or grief. He doesn’t know how he can say no to this man, who is presenting him with his bared throat and belly. Mycroft swallows around a lump in his throat.

“Make love with me... Mycroft. While we can. While I’m here.” He traces Mycroft’s jawline, rubs across the seam of Mycroft’s lips with the ball of his thumb.

Mycroft admits the digit with a sigh.

Greg bends down and kisses his forehead, then his nose. Then he removes his thumb from Mycroft’s mouth and puts his lips there instead. Mycroft opens his mouth instinctively and lets Greg’s tongue enter. Greg clasps Mycroft’s head in his hands and kisses him deeply, pushing him into the back of the chair. It’s clear that whatever deficits he has in speech haven’t affected his confidence when it comes to lovemaking. The zing Mycroft remembers from Christmas is there, drawing them together. It’s as though Greg is a magnet, pulling the iron in Mycroft’s blood.

Chemistry notwithstanding, this is a bad idea. Greg's injury is making him impulsive. It seems condescending to say that Greg is incapable of consenting to sex, but certainly he’s not in his right mind. Placed in a nearly identical situation Christmas Eve, he made a different choice, because he didn’t want to be unfaithful. If he breaks his vows now, he’ll regret it.

Greg kneels in the chair, legs on either side of Mycroft’s, and grasps his tie, loosens the knot. He slowly lifts it over Mycroft’s head, fumbling at the button of his collar. 

And yet, what if Greg is right? Why not act as though this is all they’ll ever have (because, let’s face it, this is likely a one-night-stand). What’s the worst that could happen? Steph will likely think Greg is justified in cheating and forgive him. She'll take him back. And as for Mycroft, his pride will be wounded, his heart a bit broken, but he will survive.

So Mycroft assists him, opening the buttons of his shirt one by one. Greg slides his hand under the thin white fabric and touches Mycroft’s vest. Their hands work down, down, until they’re unfastening the buttons of Mycroft’s waistcoat, and then his trousers. He bucks up against Greg, lifting his hips, and Greg scrunches the wool trousers and cotton Y-fronts down over Mycroft’s thighs, so his hard cock springs free, leaking and aching for Greg’s touch.

Greg shoves his own joggers next, and ruts against Mycroft. He licks his palm and grabs them both, stroking them together.

Mycroft lets out a hushed gasp.

Greg kneels forward and presses their mouths together, still grasping their cocks with his right hand. His touch is light; it’s not enough. Mycroft grasps Greg’s hand with his own and guides him, up and down, twist and up, twist and down, in the rhythm that he likes. Greg continues kissing him deeply all the while.

“Stop,” Mycroft breaks this kiss.

Greg looks at him, concern filling his brown eyes.

“Let’s do this right.” says Mycroft.

Greg arches an eyebrow.

“Upstairs.”

Greg nods and disentangles himself from Mycroft and stands up, pulls Mycroft up with him. Mycroft takes Greg by the hand, and leads him up to his bedroom. He opens the door. Greg pauses in the doorway, staring at the immaculate four poster bed. Then he takes the lead, walking inside backward and sitting down at the foot of the bed. He beckons Mycroft, who follows, reeled in, helplessly. He stands before Greg, who divests him of his clothes layer by layer, starting with Mycroft’s cufflinks and tie and working him down to his vest. He stands to lift the latter over Mycroft’s head, teasing him, holding it over his eyes and arms, making Mycroft chase Greg’s mouth for kisses.

After finally pulling the vest off and dropping it to the floor, Greg peels down Mycroft’s trousers and briefs and sinks to his knees, caressing Mycroft’s sides, kissing his belly, licking the trail of auburn hair that connects his navel and his pubic thatch. Mycroft’s cock is ready, standing proud and yearning for the touch of Greg’s lips. Greg makes him wait, caressing Mycroft’s thighs and calves, sliding his trousers all the way to the ground and untying his shoes. Mycroft steps out of his brogues and the puddle of his trousers, watching in astonishment as Greg bends over and kisses the tops of his feet. Mycroft has never felt so worshiped. It feels wrong that Greg should treat him with such reverence, and yet the sight of Greg on his elbows and knees is a powerful aphrodisiac. His cock weeps.

Greg slides back up and takes Mycroft’s cock into his hand, anchoring the base. Mycroft watches, rapt, as Greg takes him into his mouth. He indulges himself, running his hands through Greg’s silver hair, which is bristly beneath his fingers. He tugs it gently, and Greg moans around his cock, which sends a bolt of pleasure from Mycroft’s sacrum up his spine. Greg pumps his cock while sucking, occasionally slipping and scraping Mycroft’s shaft with his teeth. He’s no expert--Mycroft has received more skilled blowjobs. But what he lacks in technique he makes up for in enthusiasm. He’s gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous, with his pink lips stretched around Mycroft’s girth. If he doesn’t stop Mycroft is going to come, and this is not how he wanted to finish.

“Up,” Mycroft murmurs. He tugs Greg’s hair again, and Greg releases his cock, looking up at him questioningly.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes,” says Mycroft.

Greg unceremoniously kicks off his trainers and shucks his joggers and boxers down. He peels the t-shirt over his head, then sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls off his socks. It’s a ten second operation. 

“Now what?” asks Greg. His voice is rough with desire.

Mycroft isn’t sure. He curses himself for not buying condoms. “I don’t know,” he admits.

Greg pushes himself backwards onto the bed and scuttles up it like a crab. Mycroft follows and lays down on his side next to him. They face each other. Greg cups Mycroft’s jaw and kisses him, then pulls back.

“Lube?” he asks.

“Yes,” says Mycroft, “but no condoms.”

Greg nods. “I’ve been… um… since Steph was…. Got tested.”

Mycroft nods. “And your results?”

“All clear.”

Mycroft kisses Greg’s nose. “I admittedly have not been tested since my last encounter. But we used protection. If you’re comfortable with that, I’m fine forgoing condoms.”

Greg shrugs, as if it’s of no consequence. “You still want… me umm… fuck you. Till you can’t hear straight?”

Mycroft groans. “God, yes.”

Greg chuckles. “I say no? Before?”

“Yes.” Mycroft sobers. He should not be doing this. Greg turned him down twice before. Greg wanted to wait. Greg is kissing his neck in a way that steals his breath. Mycroft slides a hand up and places it over Greg’s mouth, pushes him away. “Greg.”

Greg pulls back. “Tickle?”

“No. No, it feels wonderful, but I…. We shouldn’t be doing this.”

Greg’s brow furrows. “Why?”

“You’re going to regret this.”

Greg shakes his head. “Always.... Shit. Never. Never regret you.” Greg nuzzles Mycroft’s hand, then his wrist, biting it gently. _Oh fuck._ Mycroft moans.

Greg gently moves Mycroft’s hand away and pins his wrist to the pillow. He kisses up the inside of Mycroft’s arm and starts doing that wonderful thing to his neck again.

Mycroft’s eyes flutter closed. 

Greg climbs on top of him, bracing himself on his forearms.

Mycroft arches his hips up, trying to find friction. 

“Lube?” asks Greg.

Mycroft looks at his bedside table. “Over there.”

Greg rolls over and opens the drawer, finds the bottle. He pours a copious amount on his hand. God, those hands, strong and square and sexy. Mycroft wants those fingers inside him. He props himself up on his elbows and splays his legs wide.

Greg smiles, and presses two fingers to Mycroft’s hole, massaging the muscle. Mycroft takes in deep breaths, wills himself to relax. Greg inserts his middle finger, swirling it around inside him, and Mycroft arches his head back and lets out a loud, “Fuck.”

Greg moves his finger. “See if I… ummm… still can find….” He brushes the firm flesh of Mycroft’s prostate. Mycroft lets out a string of obscenities. He can’t help but think of his time with Edmund, when he’d muffled his cries in the pillow. He’s so much less inhibited with Greg. Wants him to hear.

Greg inserts a second finger. He turns them, like a lock in a key, twisting until he finds the angle that makes Mycroft buck and squirm.

“Oh fuck oh please Greg please fuck me!”

Greg sucks the head of Mycroft’s leaking cock and presses firmly against that sweet spot. Mycroft grabs the sheets with both hands and bites his lower lip, trying desperately not to come in Greg’s hot mouth.

“If you keep doing that I”m going to--”

Greg pulls his fingers out and lets Mycroft drop from his mouth at the same time.

Mycroft is bereft and relieved.

Greg crawls back across the king size bed and retrieves the lube bottle.

Myroft watches as Greg slicks his cock. It’s shorter than Mycroft’s, but thicker too, with a bulbous round head that makes his mouth water. Next time.

Greg returns to Mycroft, who opens his legs again. He angles his cock down and lines them up.

Mycroft takes a deep breath and tilts his neck so he can watch Greg disappear inside him. It burns.

“Okay?” asks Greg.

Mycroft nods. “Give me a moment.”

Greg holds very still.

Mycroft takes several more deep breaths. Greg’s cock is thicker than he’s had in a long time.

“Okay. Move.”

Greg lowers himself down on his forearms and rocks his hips. It takes a few thrusts for him to find an angle that’s good for Mycroft, but once he does, Mycroft lets out a moan to encourage him. Greg’s a quick study, and is soon stroking that spot with the head of his thick cock. Mycroft whimpers in pleasure.

Greg reaches underneath Mycroft and cups his arse, holding it as he drives into him.

Mycroft mirrors the movement, grabbing the globes of Greg’s arse with both hands. “Take me,” he groans.

Greg ruts like an animal. The rhythmic thwap of flesh on flesh fills Mycroft’s ears. His skin heats. Beads of sweat pearl on his forehead and underarms. He feels his release building in his sacrum and toes, in his tightening balls. He can come untouched, sometimes. He resolves that’s what he will try to do. 

He angles his hips so that Greg hits his prostate every time. The breath leaves his lungs and his vision goes red. It’s both too much and not enough for him to come. Greg pounds him relentlessly and fuck, he’s going to be sore tomorrow but right now this feels brilliant. Mycroft curls his toes, tightens his calves, bites his lower lip and there, there, Greg is fucking him in the right spot and he’s close oh so close and fuck. He lets out a strangled cry as Greg wrings the orgasm from him. Come spurts between them, drenching their bellies.

“Yes,” says Greg. “Fuck. So… Beautiful. Fuck.” His hips lose all rhythm. He fucks with wild abandon, Mycroft holding on for dear life. Pleasure tilts into pain. But then Greg is there, panting and gasping. Mycroft feels each rhythmic contraction of Greg’s orgasm. It’s splendid. Greg holds himself up through the aftershocks, then slumps forward, shifting more of his weight to Mycroft’s belly.

“Fuck,’ he says. “Haven’t… Long time.”

Mycroft nods. Indeed. He can’t remember the last time he was so thoroughly shagged. And yet, anxiety encroaches on the perimeter of his oxytocin filled bubble. Tonight was fantastic, but morning will come and with it, inevitable regrets.

“No,” Greg admonishes. “Don’t worry.” He pulls out of Mycroft carefully.

Mycroft sighs.

“Gonna hold you,” says Greg. “All night.”

Mycroft nods. “And in the morning?”

Greg wraps his arms around him. “I love you. Again.”

 _I love you._ Surely Greg is referring to the act of lovemaking. Not making a premature declaration. This is Greg’s aphasia speaking. Not Greg. But what if it is a declaration? Reciprocity is presumed. Mycroft should say, ‘I love you, too.’ Does he love Greg? He cares for Greg a great deal. He’ll be heartbroken when Greg leaves. But does he love him?

“Shhh,” Greg murmurs. “You think loud.”

“Sorry,” says Mycroft.

“Go to sleep. And umm… breakfast. In the morning.”

Mycroft’s eyelids are indeed heavy. He lets them fall closed. He’s going to regret not washing the come off his belly in the morning. Along with a great many other things. But right now, he is in Greg’s arms, and he is content. Regret can wait until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends Part IV of this series. There will be one more part. If you want to know the ending, please subscribe to the series, not the fic, as there will be no more chapters posted here. 
> 
> Also, I confess it'll be a minute before I update. I've been neglecting my other WIPs to focus on this one.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will take us to some sad places. There will be one more fic in the Shifting Seasons Series and that's the one where there will be a happy ending. But this one is mostly angst, I'm afraid.


End file.
